______________________________________________________
Friedrich Nietzsche
BEYOND GOOD AND EVIL
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[This document, which has been prepared
by Ian Johnston of Vancouver Island University,
Nanaimo, BC, has certain copyright restrictions. For information, please
consult Copyright. Editorial
comments and translations in square brackets and italics are by Ian Johnston;
comments in normal brackets are from Nietzsche’s text. Last revised in
December 2013]
[Table of Contents
for Beyond Good and Evil]
PART NINE
WHAT IS NOBLE?
257
Every enhancement in the type “man” up
to this point has been the work of an aristocratic society—and that’s how it
will always be, over and over again: a society that believes in a long scale of
rank ordering and differences in worth between one person and another and that,
in some sense or other, requires slavery. Without the pathos
of distance, the sort which grows out of the
deeply rooted difference between the social classes, out of the constant gazing
outward and downward of the ruling caste on the subjects and work implements,
and out of their equally sustained practice of obedience and command, holding
down and holding at a distance, that other more mysterious pathos would have no
chance of growing at all, that longing for an ever new widening of distances
inside the soul itself, the development of ever higher, rarer, more distant,
more expansive, more comprehensive states, in short, simply the enhancement in
the type “man,” the constant “self-surmounting of man,” to cite a moral formula
in a supra-moral sense. Of course, where the history of the origins of
aristocratic society is concerned (and thus the precondition for that raising
of the type “man”—), we should not surrender to humanitarian illusions: truth
is hard. So without further consideration, let’s admit to ourselves how up to
this point every higher culture on earth has started! People with a still natural nature, barbarians in
every dreadful sense of the word, predatory men still in possession of an
unbroken power of the will and a desire for power, threw themselves on weaker,
more civilized, more peaceful, perhaps trading or cattle-raising races, or on
old, worn cultures, in which at that very moment the final forces of life were
flickering out in a dazzling fireworks display of spirit and corruption. At the
start the noble caste has always been the barbarian caste: its superiority has
lain not primarily in physical might but in spiritual power—it has been a
matter of more complete human
beings (which at every level also means “more complete beasts”).
258
Corruption as the expression of the
fact that within the instincts anarchy is threatening and that the foundation
of the affects, what we call “life,” has been shaken: according to the living
structure in which it appears, corruption is something fundamentally different.
When, for example, an aristocracy, like that in France at the start of the
Revolution, throws away its privileges with a sublime disgust and sacrifices
itself to a dissipation of its moral feelings, this is corruption:—essentially
it was only the final act in that centuries-long corruption, thanks to which
the aristocracy step-by-step gave up its ruling authority and reduced itself to
a function of
the monarchy (finally even to the monarch’s finery and display pieces). The essential
thing in a good and healthy aristocracy, however, is that it feels itself not as
a function (whether of a monarchy or of a community) but as its significance and
highest justification—that it therefore with good conscience accepts the
sacrifice of an enormous number of people, who for
its sake must be oppressed and reduced to incomplete men, to
slaves and instruments of work. Its fundamental belief must, in fact, be that
the society should exist, not for
the sake of the society, but only as a base and framework on which an exceptional
kind of nature can raise itself to its higher function and, in general, to a
higher form of being,
comparable to those heliotropic climbing
plants on Java—people call them sipo matador—whose
tendrils clutch an oak tree so much and for so long until finally, high over
the tree but supported by it, they can unfold their crowns in the open light
and make a display of their happiness.—
259
Mutually refraining from wounding each
other, from violence, and from exploitation, and setting one’s will on the same
level as others—these can in a certain crude sense become good habits among
individuals, if conditions exist for that (namely, a real similarity in the
quality of their power and their estimates of value, as well as their belonging
together within a single body). However, as soon as people wanted to take this
principle further and, where possible, establish it as the basic
principle of society, it would immediately show itself for
what it is, as the willed denial of
life, as the principle of disintegration and decay. Here we must think through
to the fundamentals and push away all sentimental weakness: living itself is essentially appropriation
from and wounding and overpowering strangers and weaker people, oppression,
hardness, imposing one’s own forms, annexing, and at the very least, in its
mildest actions, exploitation—but why should we always use these precise words,
which have from ancient times carried the stamp of a slanderous purpose? Even
that body in which, as previously mentioned, individuals deal with each other
as equals—and that happens in every healthy aristocracy—must itself, if it is a
living body and not dying out, do to other bodies all those things which the
individuals in it refrain from doing to each other: it will have to be the
living will to power, it will seek to grow, grab things around it, pull to
itself, and acquire predominance—not because of some morality or immorality,
but because it is alive and
because living is simply
the will to power. But in no point is the common consciousness of the European
more reluctant to be instructed than here. Nowadays people everywhere, even
those in scientific disguises, are raving about the coming conditions of
society from which “the exploitative character” is to have disappeared:—to my
ears that sounds as if people had promised to invent a life which abstained
from all organic functions. The “exploitation” is not part of a depraved or
incomplete and primitive society: it belongs to the essential
nature of what is living, as a basic organic function; it
is a consequence of the real will to power, which is simply the will to
life.—Assuming that this is something new as a theory—it is, nonetheless, in reality
the fundamental fact of
all history: we should at least be honest with ourselves to this extent!
260
As the result of a stroll though the
many more sophisticated and cruder moral systems which up to this point have
ruled or still rule on earth, I found certain characteristics routinely return
with each other, bound up together, until finally two basic types revealed
themselves to me and a fundamental difference sprang up. There is master
morality, and there is slave
morality—to this I immediately add that in all
higher and more mixed cultures attempts at a mediation between both moralities
make an appearance as well, even more often, a confusion and mutual
misunderstanding between the two, in fact, sometimes their close
juxtaposition—even in the same person, within a single soul. Distinctions in
moral value have arisen either among a ruling group which was happily conscious
of its difference with respect to the ruled—or among the ruled, the slaves and
dependent people of every degree. In the first case, when it’s the masters who
establish the idea of the “good,” the elevated and proud conditions of the soul
emotionally register as the distinguishing and defining order of rank. The
noble man separates his own nature from that of people in whom the opposite of
such exalted and proud states expresses itself. He despises them. We should
notice at once that in this first kind of morality the opposites “good” and
“bad” mean no more than “noble” and “despicable”—the opposition between “good”
and “evil” has another origin. The despised one is the coward, the anxious, the
small, the man who thinks about narrow utility, also the suspicious man with
his inhibited look, the self-abasing man, the species of human dogs who allow
themselves to be mistreated, the begging flatterer, and, above all, the
liar:—it is a basic belief of all aristocrats that the common folk are liars.
“We tellers of the truth”—that’s what the nobility called itself in ancient
Greece. It’s evident that distinctions of moral worth everywhere were first
applied to men and
then later, by extension, were established for actions; hence, it is a serious mistake when historians of
morality take as a starting point questions like “Why was the compassionate
action praised?” The noble kind of man experiences himself as
a person who determines value and who does not need other people’s approval. He
makes the judgment “What is harmful to me is harmful in itself.” He understands
himself as something which in general first confers honour on things, as
something which creates values.
Whatever he recognizes in himself he honours. Such a morality is
self-glorification. In the foreground stands the feeling of fullness, the power
which wants to overflow, the happiness of high tension, the consciousness of
riches which wants to give presents and provide:—the noble man also helps the
unfortunate, however not, or hardly ever, from pity, but more in response to an
impulse which the excess of power produces. The noble person honours the
powerful man in himself and also the man who has power over himself, who
understands how to speak and how to keep silent, who takes delight in dealing
with himself severely and toughly, and who respects, above all, severity and
toughness. “Wotan set a hard heart in my breast,” it says in an old
Scandinavian saga: that’s poetry emerging from the soul of a proud Viking—and
justifiably so. A man of this sort is simply proud of the fact that he has not been
made for pity. That’s why the hero of the saga adds a warning, “In a man whose
heart is not hard when he is still young it will never become hard.” Noble and
brave men who think this way are furthest
removed from that morality which sees the badge of morality specifically in
pity or in actions for others or in désintéressement
[disinterestedness]. The belief in oneself, pride in oneself, a fundamental
hostility and irony against “selflessness” belong to noble morality, just as
much as an easy contempt and caution before feelings of pity and the “warm
heart.” Powerful men are the ones who understand how
to honour; that is their art, their realm of invention. The profound reverence
for age and for ancestral tradition—all justice stands on this double reverence—the
belief and the prejudice favouring forefathers and working against newcomers
are typical in the morality of the powerful, and when, by contrast, the men of
“modern ideas” believe almost instinctively in “progress” and the “future” and
increasingly lack any respect for age, then in that attitude the ignoble origin
of these “ideas” already reveals itself well enough. However, a morality of the
rulers is most alien and embarrassing to present taste because of the severity
of its basic principle that man has duties only with respect to those like him,
that man should act towards those beings of lower rank, towards everything foreign,
at his own discretion, or “as his heart dictates,” and, in any case, “beyond
good and evil.” Here pity and things like that may belong. The capacity for and
obligation to a long gratitude and a long revenge—both only within the circle
of one’s peers—the sophistication in paying back again, the refined idea in
friendship, a certain necessity to have enemies (as, so to speak, drainage
ditches for the feelings of envy, quarrelsomeness, and high spirits—basically
in order to be capable of being a good friend): all those are typical characteristics of a noble
morality, which, as indicated, is not the morality of “modern ideas” and which
is thus nowadays difficult to sympathize with, as well as difficult to dig up
and expose. Things are different with the second type of moral system, slave
morality. Suppose the oppressed, depressed, suffering
and unfree people, those ignorant of themselves and
tired out, suppose they moralize: what will be the common feature of their
moral estimates of value? Probably a pessimistic suspicion directed at the
entire human situation will express itself, perhaps a condemnation of man,
along with his situation. The gaze of a slave is not well disposed towards the
virtues of the powerful; he possesses scepticism and mistrust; he has a subtlety of
mistrust of everything “good” that is honoured in those virtues—he would like
to persuade himself that even happiness is not genuine there. By contrast,
those characteristics will be pulled forward and flooded with light which serve
to mitigate existence for those who suffer: here respect is given to pity, to
the obliging hand ready to help, to the warm heart, to patience, diligence,
humility, and friendliness—for these are here the most useful characteristics
and almost the only means to endure the pressure of existence. Slave morality
is essentially a morality of utility. Here is the focus for the origin of that
famous opposition of “good” and “evil”:—people sense power and danger
within evil, a certain terror, subtlety, and strength that does not permit
contempt to spring up. According to slave morality, the “evil” man thus inspires
fear; according to master morality, it is precisely the “good” man who inspires
and desires to inspire fear, while the “bad” man is felt as despicable. This
opposition reaches its peak when, in accordance with the consequences of slave
morality, finally a trace of disregard is also attached to the “good” of this
morality—it may be light and benevolent—because within the way of thinking of
the slave the good person must definitely be the harmless person:
he is good natured, easy to deceive, perhaps a bit stupid, un bonhomme [a good fellow].
Wherever slave morality gains predominance the language reveals a tendency to
bring the words “good” and “stupid” into closer proximity. A final basic
difference: the longing for freedom,
the instinct for happiness, and the refinements of the feeling for freedom belong
just as necessarily to slave morality and morals as art and enthusiasm in
reverence and in devotion are the regular symptoms of an aristocratic way of
thinking and valuing. From this we can without further ado understand why love
as passion—which
is our European specialty—must clearly have a noble origin: as is well known,
its invention belongs to the Provencal knightly poets, those splendidly
inventive men of the “gay saber” [gay
science] to whom Europe owes so much—almost its very self.
261
Vanity is among the things that are
perhaps hardest for a noble man to understand: he will be tempted even to deny
its existence where another kind of man thinks he has grasped it with both
hands. For him the problem is imagining to himself beings who seek to elicit a
good opinion of themselves which they themselves do not possess—and which, as a
result, they also have not “earned”—people who, nonetheless, themselves later believe in
this good opinion. Half of this seems to the noble man so tasteless and
disrespectful of oneself and the other half so unreasonably baroque, that he
would be happy to understand vanity as an exception and has doubts about it in
most cases when people talk of it. For example, he’ll say: “I can make a
mistake about my own value and yet on the other hand still demand that my
value, precisely as I determine it, is recognized by others—that, however, is
not vanity (but arrogance or, in the more frequent cases, something called
“humility” and “modesty”). Or again, “For many reasons I can take pleasure in
the good opinion of others, perhaps because I honour and love them and enjoy
all of their pleasures, perhaps also because their good opinion underscores and
strengthens the faith I have in my own good opinion of myself, or perhaps
because the good opinion of others, even in cases where I do not share it, is
still useful to me or promises to be useful—but all that is not vanity.” The
noble man must first compel himself, particularly with the help of history, to
see that since time immemorial, in all the levels of people dependent in some
way or other, the common man was only
what people thought of him:—not
being at all accustomed to set values himself, he measured even himself by no
value other than by how his masters assessed him (that is the essential right
of masters, to create values). We should
understand that, as the consequence of an immense atavism, the common man even
today still always waits first for an opinion about himself and then
instinctively submits himself to it: however, that is by no means merely to a
“good” opinion, but also to a bad and unreasonable one (think, for example, of
the greatest part of the self-assessment and self-devaluing which devout women
learn from their father confessors and the devout Christian in general learns
from his church). Now, in accordance with the slow arrival of the democratic
order of things (and its cause, the blood mixing between masters and slaves),
the originally noble and rare impulse to ascribe to oneself a value on one’s
own and “to think well” of oneself will really become more and more encouraged
and widespread. But in every moment it has working against it an older, more
extensive, and more deeply incorporated tendency—and where the phenomenon of
“vanity” is concerned, this older tendency becomes master over the more recent
one. The vain person takes pleasure in every good
opinion which he hears about himself (quite apart from all considerations of
its utility and equally apart from its truth or falsity), just as he suffers
from every bad opinion. For he submits to both; he feels himself
subjected to them on the basis of that oldest of instincts for submission which
breaks out in him. It is “the slave” in the blood of the vain man, a trace of
the slave’s roguishness—and how much of the “slave” still remains nowadays in
woman, for example!—that tries to tempt him
into good opinions of himself; in the same way it’s the slave who later
prostrates himself immediately in front of these opinions, as if he had not
summoned them up. —To state the matter once again: vanity is an atavism.
262
A species arises, a type becomes established and strong, under the
long struggle with essentially unchanging, unfavourable conditions.
By contrast, we know from the experience of breeders that species which receive
an ultra-abundant nourishment and, in general, an increase in protection and
care immediately tend towards variety in the type in the strongest manner and
are rich in wonders and monstrosities (as well as monstrous vices). Now, let’s
look at an aristocratic commonwealth—for example, an ancient Greek polis
[city state] or Venice—as an organization, whether voluntary or
involuntary, for the purpose of breeding.
There are men there living together who rely upon one another and who want
their species to succeed mainly because it has
to succeed or run the fearful risk of being
annihilated. Here there is a lack of that advantage, that excess, that
protection under which variations are encouraged. The species senses the need
for itself as a species, as something which, particularly thanks to its
hardness, uniformity, and simplicity of form, can generally succeed and enable itself to keep going in the constant struggles with
neighbours or with the rebellious oppressed people or with those who threaten
rebellion. The most varied experience teaches them which characteristics they
have to thank, above all, for the fact that they are still there, in spite of
all the gods and men, that they have always been victorious up to this point.
These characteristics they call virtues, and they cultivate only these virtues
to any great extent. They do that with severity—in fact, they desire severity.
Every aristocratic morality is intolerant in its education of the young, its
provisions for women, its marriage customs, its relationships between young and
old, and its penal laws (which fix their eyes only on those who are deviants)—it
reckons intolerance itself among the virtues, under the name “justice.” A type
with few but very strong characteristics, a species of strict, warlike,
shrewdly laconic people, close-knit and reserved (and, as such, having the most
sophisticated feelings for the charm and nuances of society) in this way
establishes itself over and above the changes in the generations. The constant
struggle with unvarying, unfavourable
conditions is, as mentioned, the factor that makes a type fixed and hard.
Finally, however, at some point a fortunate time arises, which lets the immense
tension ease. Perhaps there are no more enemies among the neighbours, and the
means for living, even for enjoying life, are there in abundance. With one blow
the bond and the compulsion of the old discipline are torn apart: that
discipline no longer registers as necessary, as a condition of existence—if it
wished to remain in existence, it could do so only as a form of luxury, as an archaic taste. Variation, whether as something abnormal
(something higher, finer, and rarer) or as degeneration and monstrosity,
suddenly bursts onto the scene in the greatest abundance and splendour; the
individual dares to be individual and stand apart. At these historical turning
points there appear alongside each other and often involved and mixed up together
marvellous, multifaceted, jungle-like growths, an upward soaring, a kind of tropical tempo
in competitiveness for growing and an immense annihilation and
self-destruction, thanks to the wild egoisms turned against each other and, as
it were, exploding, which wrestle with one another “for sun and light” and no
longer know how to derive any limit, any restraint, or any consideration from
the morality they have had up to that point. This very morality was the one
which built up such immense power, which bent the bow in such a threatening manner—now,
at this moment, it is and is becoming “outdated.” The dangerous and disturbing
point is reached where the greater, more multifaceted, and more comprehensive
life lives beyond the
old morality; the “individual” stands there, forced to give himself his own
laws, his own arts and tricks for self-preservation, self-raising, and
self-redemption. Nothing but new what-for’s, nothing but new how-to’s, no common formulas any more, misunderstanding
and contempt bound up together, decay, spoilage, and the highest desires tied together
in a ghastly way, the genius of the race brimming over from all the horns of
plenty with good and bad, an ominous simultaneous presence of spring and autumn,
full of new charms and veils, characteristic of young, still unexhausted, still
unwearied depravity. Once again there’s danger there, the mother of morality,
great danger, this time transferred into the individual, into one’s neighbour
and friend, into the alleyways, into one’s own child, into one’s own heart,
into all the narrowest and most secret parts of one’s wishes and desires. What
will the moral philosophers who emerge at such a time now have to preach? They
discover, these keen observers and street loafers, that things are quickly
coming to an end, that everything around them is going rotten and spreading corruption,
that nothing lasts until the day after tomorrow, except for one kind of person,
the incurably mediocre.
Only the mediocre have the prospect of succeeding, of reproducing themselves—they
are the people of the future, the only survivors, “Be like them! Become mediocre!”—from
now on that’s the only morality that still makes sense, that people still
hear.—But it is difficult to preach, this morality of mediocrity!—it may never
admit what it is and what it wants! It must speak about restraint and worth and
duty and love of one’s neighbour—it will have difficulty concealing
its irony!
263
There is an instinct
for rank which, more than anything, is already an indication
of a high rank.
There is a delight in the nuances of respect which permits us to
surmise a noble origin and habits. The refinement, goodness, and loftiness of a
soul are put to a dangerous test when something goes past in front of it which
is of the first rank, but which is not yet protected by the fear of authority
from prying clutches and crudities: something that goes its way unmarked,
undiscovered, tentative, perhaps arbitrarily disguised and hidden, like a living
touchstone. The man whose task and practice is to investigate souls will use
precisely this art in a number of different forms in order to establish the
ultimate value of a soul, the unalterable innate order of rank to which it belongs:
he will put it to the test for its instinct
of reverence. Différence engendre haine
[Difference engenders hatred]: the nastiness of some natures suddenly
spurts out like dirty water when some sacred container, some precious object
from a locked shrine, or some book with marks of a great destiny is carried by.
On the other hand, there is an involuntary falling silent, a hesitation in the
eye, an end to all gestures, things which express that a soul feels close
to something most worthy of reverence. The way in which reverence for the Bible
in Europe has, on the whole, been maintained so far is perhaps the best piece
of discipline and refinement of habits for which Europe owes a debt of thanks
to Christianity: such books of profundity and ultimate significance need for
their protection an externally imposed
tyranny of authority in order to last for
those thousands of years necessary to exhaust them and sort out what they mean.
Much has been achieved when in the great mass of people (the shallow ones and
all sorts of people with diarrhoea) the feeling has finally been cultivated
that they are not permitted to touch everything, that there are sacred experiences
before which they have to pull off their shoes and which they must keep their
dirty hands off—this is almost the highest intensification of their humanity.
By contrast, perhaps nothing makes the so-called educated people, those who
have faith in “modern ideas,” so nauseating as their lack of shame, the
comfortable impudence in their eyes and hands, with which they touch, lick, and
grope everything, and it is possible that these days among a people, one still
finds in the common folk, particularly among the peasants, more relative
nobility of taste and tactful reverence
than among the newspaper-reading demi-monde of the spirit, among the educated.
264
One cannot erase from a human being’s
soul those actions which his ancestors loved most and carried out most
steadfastly: whether they were, for example, industrious savers attached to a
writing table and money box, modest and bourgeois in their desires, as well as
modest in their virtues, or whether they were accustomed to live giving orders
from morning until night, fond of harsh entertainment and, along with that, perhaps
of even harsher duties and responsibilities; or whether, finally, they had at
some time or other once sacrificed the old privileges of their birth and possessions
in order to live entirely for their faith—for their “god”—as men of an
unrelenting and delicate conscience, which blushes when confronted with any
compromise. It is in no way possible that a man does not possess
in his body the characteristics and preferences of his parents and forefathers,
no matter what appearance might say to the contrary. This is the problem of
race. If we know something about the parents, then we may draw a conclusion
about the child: some unpleasant excess or other, some lurking envy, a crude
habit of self-justification—these three together have at all times made up the
essential type of the rabble—something like that must be passed onto the child
as surely as corrupt blood, and with the help of the best education and culture
people will succeed only in deceiving others
about such heredity. And nowadays what else do education and culture want! In
our age, one very much of the people—I mean to say our uncouth age—“education”
and “culture” must basically
be the art of deception—to mislead about the origin of the inherited rabble in
one’s body and soul. Today an educator who preached truthfulness above
everything else and constantly shouted at his students “Be true! Be natural!
Act as you really are!”—even such a virtuous and true-hearted jackass would after
some time learn to take hold of that furca [pitchfork] of
Horace, in order to naturam expellere [drive out nature]. With what success? “Rabble”
usque recurret [will always return].1
265
At the risk of annoying innocent ears,
I propose the following: egoism belongs to the nature of the noble soul; I mean
that unshakeable faith that to a being such as “we are” other beings must be
subordinate by nature and have to sacrifice themselves. The noble soul takes
this fact of its egoism without any question mark and without the feeling that
there is anything harsh, compelled, or arbitrary in it, much more as something
that may be established in the fundamental law of things. If he sought out a name
for this, he would say “It is justice itself.” In some circumstances which make
him hesitate at first, he admits that there are those with rights equal to his
own. As soon as he has cleared up this question of rank, he moves among these
equals who have the same rights as his with the same confident modesty and
sophisticated reverence which he has in his dealings with himself—in accordance
with an inborn heavenly mechanism which all the stars understand. It is one more part
of his egoism, this sophistication and self-restraint in his relations with his
equals—every star is such an egoist—: his soul honours itself in
them and in the rights which it concedes to them. It has no doubt that the
exchange of respect and rights, as the essential
quality of all interactions, also belongs to the natural
condition of things. The noble soul gives as it takes, out of the passionate
and sensitive instinct for repayment, which lies deep within it. The idea “favour”
has no sense and agreeable fragrance inter
pares [among equals]; there may be a sublime manner of allowing
presents from above to wash over one, as it were, and of drinking them up thirstily
like water drops, but for these arts and gestures the noble soul has no skill.
Here its egoism hinders it: in general, it is not happy to look “up
above”—instead it looks either directly forward, horizontally and slowly, or down—it knows that
it is on a height.
266
“We can only truly respect highly the
man who is not seeking himself”
Goethe to Councillor Schlosser.
267
There is a saying among the Chinese
that mothers even teach their children: siao-sin,
“Make your heart small!” This is the essential and basic tendency of
late civilizations: I have no doubt that an ancient Greek would at once
recognize this self-diminution in us contemporary Europeans as well—and for
that reason alone we would already go “against his taste.”
268
Ultimately, what does it mean to be
ignoble?—Words are sound signals for ideas, but ideas are more or less firm image
signs for sensations which return frequently and occur together, for groups of
sensations. To understand each other, it is not yet sufficient that people use
the same words; they must also use the same words for the same form of inner
experiences; in the end they must hold their experience in
common with each other. That’s why human beings belonging
to a single people understand each other better among themselves than
associations of different peoples, even when they use the same language; or
rather, when human beings have lived together for a long time under similar
conditions (climate, soil, danger, needs, work), then something arises out
of that which “understands itself”—a people. In all souls, a similar number of
frequently repeating experiences have won the upper hand over those which come
more rarely; people understand each other on the basis of the former quickly
and with ever-increasing speed—the history of language is the history of a
process of abbreviation, and on the basis of this rapid understanding, people
bind with one another, closely and with ever-increasing closeness. The greater
the danger, the greater the need quickly and easily to come to agreement over
what needs to be done; not to misunderstand each other when in danger is what
people simply cannot do without in their interactions. With every friendship or
love affair people still make this test: nothing of that sort lasts as soon as
people reach the point where, with the same words, one of the two feels, means,
senses, wishes, or fears something different from the other one. (The fear of
the “eternal misunderstanding”: that is the benevolent genius which so often
prevents people of different sexes from over-hasty unions, to which their
senses and hearts urge them—and not
some Schopenhauerish “genius of the species”!—). Which groups of
sensations within the soul wake up most rapidly, seize the word, give the order—that
decides about the whole rank ordering of its values, that finally determines
its tables of goods. The assessments of value in a man reveal something about
the structure of
his soul and where it looks for its conditions of life, its essential needs. Now, assume that need has always
brought together only such people as could indicate with similar signs similar
requirements and similar experiences, then it generally turns out that the easy ability
to communicate need, that is, in the last analysis, familiarity
with only average and common experiences,
must have been the most powerful of all the forces which have so far determined
things among human beings. People who are more similar and more ordinary have
been and always are at an advantage; the more exceptional, more refined, rarer,
and more difficult to understand easily remain isolated; in their isolation
they are subject to accidents and rarely propagate themselves. People have to
summon up huge counter-forces to check this natural, all-too-natural progressus in simile [advance into similarity], the further development of human beings into
what’s similar, ordinary, average, herd-like—into what’s
common.
269
The more a psychologist—a born and
inevitable psychologist and diviner of the soul—turns himself towards
exceptional examples and human beings, the greater the danger to him of suffocation
from pity. He has to be
hard and cheerful, more so than another man. For the corruption and destruction
of loftier men, of the stranger type of soul, is the rule: it is terrible to
have such a rule always before one’s eyes. The multifaceted torment of the
psychologist who has uncovered this destructiveness, who once discovers and
then almost always
rediscovers throughout all history this entire inner “hopelessness” of the
loftier people, this eternal “too late!” in every sense—this torment can perhaps
one day become the reason he turns with bitterness against his own lot,
attempts self-destruction—and “corrupts” himself. With almost every psychologist
we will see a revealing inclination for and delight in associating with ordinary
and well-adjusted people: that indicates that he always needs healing, that he
requires some sort of refuge and forgetting, far from what his insights and
incisions, his “trade,” have laid on his conscience. Fear of his memory is
characteristic of him. He is easily reduced to silence before the judgments of
others; he listens with an unmoving face as people revere, admire, love, and
transfigure where he has seen,
or he even hides his silence, while he expressly agrees with some foreground
point of view or other. Perhaps the paradox of his situation gets so terrible
that precisely where he has learned great pity as well as great contempt, the
crowd, the educated, and the enthusiasts have for their part learned great
admiration—the admiration for “great men” and miraculous animals for whose sake
people bless and honour the fatherland, the earth, the value of humanity, and
themselves, those to whom they draw the attention of the young and whom they
use as role models in their education . . . And who knows whether in all great
examples up to this point the very same thing has not happened: the crowd worshipped
a god—and the “god” was only a poor sacrificial animal! Success has always been
the greatest liar, and the “work” itself a success; the great statesman, the
conqueror, or the discoverer is disguised in his creation to the point where he
is unrecognizable; the “work” of the artist and of the philosopher first
invents the man who has created it or is supposed to have created it; the
“great men,” as they are honoured, are small inferior works of fiction written
later; in the world of historical values counterfeit is king. These great poets, for example, this
Byron, Musset, Poe, Leopardi, Kleist, Gogol2—as they now are and perhaps had to be: men of the
moment, enthusiastic, sensuous, childish, careless and sudden with trust and
mistrust; with souls in which some fracture or other normally has to be
concealed; often taking revenge in their works for an inner slur, often seeking
with their flights upward to forget some all-too-true memory, often lost in the
mud and almost infatuated, until they become like will o’ the wisps around a
swamp and pretend that
they are stars—then the populace may well call them idealists—often struggling
against a long disgust, with a recurring ghost of unbelief which makes them
cold and forces them to yearn for gloria [glory] and
to feed on “inherent faith” from the hands of intoxicated flatterers—what torture are
these great artists and the loftier human beings in general for the man who has
once guessed who they are! It is thus understandable that they should
so readily experience from woman—who is clairvoyant in the world of suffering
and who unfortunately also seeks to help and to save far beyond her
powers—those eruptions of unlimited and most devoted pity which
the crowd, above all the worshipping masses, does not understand and which it
overwhelms with curious and complacent interpretations. This pity regularly
deceives itself about its power; woman may believe that love can do everything—that’s a belief essential
to her. Alas, anyone who knows about the heart can guess how poor, stupid,
helpless, presumptuous, mistaken, more easily destructive than saving even the
best and deepest love is! It is possible that beneath the sacred story and
charade of the life of Jesus there lies hidden one of the most painful examples
of the martyrdom of knowledge about love: the martyrdom of the most innocent and most desiring
heart, which was never satisfied with any human love, which demanded love, to be loved and nothing
else, with hardness, with madness, with fearful outbreaks against those who
denied him love; the history of a poor man unsatisfied and insatiable with
love, who had to invent hell in order to send there those who did not wish to
love him—and who finally, having grown to understand human love, had to invent
a God who is entirely love, who is entirely capable of
love—who takes pity on human love because it is so pathetic, so unknowing!
Anyone who feels this way, who knows
about love in this way—seeks death.—But why
dwell on such painful things? Assuming we don’t have to.—
270
The spiritual arrogance and disgust of
every man who has suffered deeply—how profoundly men
can suffer almost determines their order of rank—his chilling certainty, with
which he is thoroughly soaked and coloured, that thanks to his suffering he
knows more than the cleverest and wisest can know, that he has
experienced and at some point been “at home” in many terrible far-off worlds,
about which “you know nothing!” . . . this spiritual and silent
arrogance of the sufferer, this pride of the one chosen to know, of the
“initiate,” of the one who has almost been sacrificed, finds all kinds of
disguise necessary to protect itself from contact with prying and compassionate
hands and, in general, from everything which is not its equal in pain. Profound
suffering ennobles; it separates. One of the most sophisticated forms of
disguise is Epicureanism and a certain continuing courageousness in taste
adopted as a show, which takes suffering lightly and resists everything sad and
deep. There are “cheerful men” who use cheerfulness because it makes them misunderstood—they want to
be misunderstood. There are “scientific people” who use science because that
provides a cheerful appearance and because being scientific enables one to
infer that the person is superficial—they want to
seduce people to a false conclusion. There are free, impudent spirits who would
like to hide and deny that they are broken, proud, incurable hearts; and now and then even foolishness is a mask for a disastrous,
all-too-certain knowledge.3 Hence,
it follows that it’s part of a more sophisticated humanity to have reverence
“for the mask” and not to pursue psychology and curiosity in the wrong place.
271
What most profoundly divides two men is
a different sense and degree of cleanliness. What help is all honesty and mutual utility, what help is all
the good will for each other: in the end the fact remains—they “cannot bear to
smell each other!” The highest instinct for cleanliness puts the person marked
by it in the strangest and most dangerous isolation, like a saint: for that’s
simply what saintliness is—the highest spiritualization of the instinct in
question. Any awareness of an indescribable abundance of pleasure in the bath,
any lust and thirst which constantly drives the soul out of the night into the
morning and out of cloudiness, the “affliction,” into what is bright, gleaming,
profound, and subtle; just as such a tendency singles out—it is a noble
tendency—so it also separates.
The pity of the saint is pity for the dirt of
those who are human, all-too-human. And there are degrees and heights where the
saint feels pity itself as contamination, as dirt . . .
272
Signs of nobility: never thinking of
reducing our duties to duties for everyone; not wanting to give up one’s own
responsibility, not wanting to share it; to include our privileges and acting
on them among one’s duties.
273
A person who strives for something
great looks at everyone he meets along his way either as a means or as a delay
and an obstacle—or as a temporary place to rest. His characteristic
high-quality goodness towards
his fellow men is first possible when he has reached his height and governs.
His impatience and his awareness that until that point he is always sentenced
to comedy—for even war is a comedy and conceals, just as every means hides the
end—corrupt all contacts for him: this kind of man knows loneliness and what is
most poisonous in it.
274
The problem of those who wait.—For a higher man in whom the solution to a
problem lies asleep, strokes of luck and all sorts of unpredictable things are
necessary for him to swing into action at just the right time—“for an
eruption,” as we could say. Ordinarily it does not happen,
and in all the corners of the earth people sit waiting, who hardly know to what
extent they are waiting, but even less that they are waiting in vain. From time
to time the call to wake up, that chance which provides “permission” for
action, comes too late—at a time when their best youth and power for action
have already been used up in sitting still. And many a man, in the very moment
he “sprang up,” has found to his horror that his limbs have gone to sleep and
his spirit is already too heavy! “It is too late,” he has said to himself,
having lost faith in himself, and is now forever useless. —In the realm of
genius, could “Raphael without hands,” taking that phrase in the
widest sense, perhaps not be the exception but the rule?4—Genius is perhaps not really so rare, but rather
the five hundred hands needed
to tyrannize the kairos,
“the right time,” to seize chance by the forelock!5
275
Anyone who does not want to
see the height of a man looks all the more keenly at what is low and in his
foreground—and in the process gives himself away.
276
With all kinds of injury and loss the
lower and cruder soul is better off than the more noble one: the dangers for
the latter must be greater; the probability that it will go wrong and die is
even immense, given the multifaceted nature of its living conditions.—With a
lizard a finger which has been lost grows back: not so with a man.
277
Bad enough! The old story again! When
we have finished building our house, we suddenly notice that in the process we
have learned something that we simply had
to know before we started to build. The eternally
tiresome “Too late!”—The melancholy of
everything finished!
. . .
278
Wanderer, who are you? I see you going
on your way, without scorn, without love, with unfathomable eyes, damp and sad,
like a lead sinker which has come back unsatisfied from every depth into the
light—what was it looking for down there?—with a breast which does not sigh,
with a lip which hides its disgust, with a hand which grasps only slowly: Who
are you? What have you been doing? Have a rest here: this place is hospitable
to everyone—relax! And whoever you happen to be, what would you like now? What
do you need to recuperate? Just name it: what I have I’ll offer you! “For relaxation? For recuperation? O
you inquisitive man, what are you talking about! But give me, I beg . . .”
What? What? Say it!—“One more mask! A second mask!” . . . .
279
Men of profound sorrow betray
themselves when they are happy: they have a way of grabbing happiness as if
they would like to overwhelm and strangle it from jealousy—alas, they know too
well that it is running away from them!
280
“Bad! Bad! What? Is he not going—back?”—Yes!
But you understand him badly if you complain about it. He’s going back, as
every man does who wants to make a huge jump.—
281
“Will people believe it of me? But I
demand that people believe it of me: I have always thought only badly of myself
and about myself, only in very rare cases, only when under compulsion, always
without delight ‘for the subject,’ ready to wander off from ‘myself,’ always
without faith in the conclusion, thanks to the uncontrollable mistrust of the possibility of
self-knowledge, which has taken me so far that I find even the idea of
‘immediate knowledge,’ which the theoreticians allow themselves, a contradictio in adjecto [contradiction in terms]: this
entire fact is almost the surest thing I know about myself. Within me there
must be some kind of aversion to believing anything
definite about myself. Is a riddle perhaps hidden in that? Probably, but
fortunately nothing for my own teeth. Perhaps it reveals the species to which I belong?—But not
to me: and that’s enough to satisfy me.
282
“But what has happened to you?”—”I don’t know,” he said, hesitating; “perhaps the Harpies have flown
over my table.”6 Occasionally
nowadays it happens that a mild, moderate, reserved man suddenly becomes
violent, smashes plates, throws over the table, screams, stomps around,
slanders the entire world—and finally turns aside, ashamed, furious with himself.—Where?
What for? To starve off on his own? To suffocate
on his memory? Anyone who has the
desires of a lofty, discriminating soul and only rarely finds his table set and
his nourishment ready will at all times be in great danger: but today the
danger is extraordinary. Thrown into a noisy and uncouth age, with which he
does not want to eat out of the same dish, he can easily perish from hunger and
thirst, or, if he finally nonetheless “helps himself,”—from sudden disgust.—All
of us have probably already sat at tables where we did not belong; and it’s
precisely the most spiritual ones among us who are the most difficult to feed,
who know that dangerous dyspepsia which comes from a sudden insight and
disappointment about our food and those sitting next to us at the table—the after-dinner
disgust.
283
Assuming that one wants to praise at
all, there’s a refined and at the same time noble self-control that always
gives praise only where one does not agree:—in
other cases one would really be praising oneself, something that contradicts
good taste—naturally, a self-control which provides a good opportunity and
provocation for one to be constantly misunderstood. In order to permit oneself this true luxury of
taste and morality, one must not live among spiritual fools, but rather among
people whose misunderstandings and false ideas are still amusing for their
sophistication—or one will have to pay dearly for it!—“He is praising me: thus, he admits I’m right”—this asinine way of making
conclusions ruins half of life for us hermits, for it brings the asses into our
neighbourhood and friendship.
284
To live with an immense and proud
composure: always beyond.—To have and not have one’s feelings, one’s for and
against, voluntarily, to condescend to them for hours, to sit on
them, as if on a horse, often as if on a donkey:—for one needs to know how to
use their stupidity as well as their fire. To preserve one’s three hundred
foregrounds and one’s dark glasses: for there are occasions when no one should
be allowed to look into our eyes, even less into our “reasons.” And to select
for company that mischievous and cheerful vice, courtesy. And to remain master
of one’s four virtues: courage, insight, sympathy, and solitude. For solitude
is a virtue with us, as a sublime tendency and impulse for cleanliness, which
senses how contact between one person and another—“in society”—must inevitably
bring impurity with it. Every community somehow, somewhere, sometime makes
people—“common.”
285
The greatest events and ideas—but the
greatest ideas are the greatest events—are understood last of all: the
generations contemporary with them do not experience such
events—they go on living past them. What happens then is something like in the
realm of the stars. The light of the most distant stars comes to men last of
all: and before that light arrives, men deny that
there are stars there. “How many centuries does a spirit need in order to be
understood?”—that is also a standard with which people construct a rank
ordering and etiquette, as is necessary, for spirit and star.—
286
“Here the view is free, the spirit
elevated.”—But there is a reverse kind of person who is also on the heights and
also has a free view—but who looks down.
287
What is noble? What does the word
“noble” still mean to us nowadays? What reveals the noble human being, how do
people recognize him, under this heavy, oppressive sky at the beginning of the
rule of the rabble, which is making everything opaque and leaden?—It is not the
actions that prove him—actions are always ambiguous, always inscrutable—; nor
is it the “works.” Among artists and scholars today we find a sufficient number
of those who through their works reveal how a profound desire for what is noble
drives them: but this very need for what
is noble is fundamentally different from the needs of the noble soul itself and
is really the eloquent and dangerous indication that such a soul is lacking.
It’s not the works; it’s the belief which
decides here, which here establishes the order of rank, to take up once more an
old religious formula with a new and more profound meaning: some basic
certainty that a noble soul has about itself, something that does not allow
itself to be sought out or found or perhaps even to be lost. The noble soul
has reverence for itself.—
288
There are human beings who have spirit
in an inevitable way. They may toss and turn as they wish and hold their hands
in front of their tell-tale eyes (—as if the hand were not a giveaway!—):
finally it always comes out that they have something they are hiding, that is,
spirit. One of the most sophisticated ways to deceive, at least for as long as
possible, and to present oneself successfully as stupider than one is—what in
common life is often as desirable as an umbrella—is called enthusiasm, including what belongs with it, for example,
virtue. For, as Galiani, who must have
known, says: vertu est
enthousiasme
[virtue is enthusiasm].
289
In the writings of a hermit we always
hear something of the echo of a wasteland, something of the whispers and the
timid gazing around of isolation; from his strongest words, even from his
crying out, still resounds a new and more dangerous kind of silence, of
concealment. Whoever has sat down, year in and year out, day and night, alone
in an intimate dispute and conversation with his soul, whoever has become a
cave bear or digger for treasure or guardian of treasure and dragon in his own
cavern—it can be a labyrinth but also a gold mine—such a man’s very ideas
finally take on a distinct twilight colouring and smell as much of mould as
they do of profundity, something uncommunicative and reluctant, which blows
cold wind over everyone passing by. The hermit does not believe that a
philosopher—assuming that a philosopher has always first been a hermit—has ever
expressed his real and final opinions in his books. Don’t people write books
expressly to hide what they have stored inside them?—In fact, he will have doubts
whether a philosopher could generally
have “real and final” opinions, whether in his case behind every cave there
does not lie, and must lie, an even deeper cavern—a more comprehensive,
stranger, richer world beyond the surface, an abyss behind every ground, under
every “foundation.” Every philosophy is a foreground philosophy—that is the
judgment of a hermit: “There is something arbitrary about the fact that he remained
here, looked back, and looked around, that at
this point set his shovel aside and did not dig more
deeply—there is also something suspicious about it.” Every philosophy also hides a
philosophy; every opinion is also a hiding place, every word is also a mask.
290
Every deep thinker is more afraid of
being understood than of being misunderstood. In the latter case, perhaps his
vanity suffers, but the former hurts his heart, his sympathy, which always
says, “Alas, why do you want to have it as hard as I did?”
291
Man, a multifaceted, lying, artificial,
and impenetrable animal, who spooks other animals less by his power than by his
cunning and intelligence, has invented good conscience in order to enjoy his
own soul for once as something simple;
and all of morality is a long spirited falsification, thanks to which it’s at
all possible to enjoy looking at the soul. From this point of view, perhaps
much more belongs to the idea of “art” than people commonly believe.
292
A philosopher: that is a man who
constantly experiences, sees, hears, suspects, hopes, and dreams extraordinary
things; who is struck by his very own thoughts as if from outside, as if from
above and below, as if they are events and lightning strikes tailor-made for him; who is himself perhaps a storm which moves along
pregnant with new lightning flashes; a fateful man, around whom things always
rumble and mutter and gape and proceed mysteriously. A philosopher: alas, a
being that often runs away from himself, is often afraid of himself—but that is
too curious not to “come back to himself” again and again. . . .
293
A man who says, “That pleases me. I
take that for my own and will protect it and defend it against everyone,” a man
who can lead a cause, put a decision into effect, remain true to an idea, hold
on to a woman, punish and cast down an insolent person, a man who has his anger
and his sword and to whom the weak, the suffering, the distressed, and even the
animals are happy to go and belong to by nature—in short, a man who is
naturally a master—when
such a man has pity, well, this pity
is worth something! But what is there in the pity of those who suffer! Or even
of those who preach pity! Today in almost all of Europe there is a pathological
susceptibility and sensitivity to pain, as well as a nasty lack of restraint in
complaining, a mollycoddling, which likes to dress itself up with religion and
philosophical bits and pieces as something loftier—there is a formal culture of
suffering. In my view, the unmanliness of
what is christened “pity” in such enthusiastic circles is what always strikes
the eye first.—We must excommunicate this latest form of bad taste, powerfully
and thoroughly; and finally I wish that people would set against their hearts
and throats the good amulet “gai saber,”—“gay
science”, to clarify this matter for the Germans.
294
The Olympian vice.—In spite of that philosopher who, as a genuine
Englishman, tried to make laughing a defamation of character among all thinking
men—“Laughter is a serious infirmity of human nature, which every thinking man
will strive to overcome” (Hobbes)—I would really allow myself to order the
ranks of philosophers according to the rank of their laughter—right up to those
who are capable of golden laughter.
And assuming that the gods also practise philosophy, a fact which many
conclusions have already driven me to—I don’t doubt that in the process they
also know how to laugh in a superhuman and new way—and at the expense of all
serious things! Gods delight in making fun: even where sacred actions are
concerned, it seems they cannot stop laughing.
295
The genius of the heart, as that great
hidden presence possesses it, the tempter-god and born pied piper of the
conscience, whose voice knows how to climb down into the underworld of every
soul, who does not say a word or cast a glance in which there does not lie some
concern with and trace of temptation, whose mastery includes the fact that he
understands how to seem—and not what he is, but what for those who follow him
is one more compulsion
to press themselves always closer to him, to follow him ever more inwardly and
completely:—that genius of the heart who makes all noise and self-satisfaction
fall silent and teaches it to listen, who smoothes out the rough souls and
gives them a new desire to taste,—to lie still as a mirror so that the deep
heaven reflects itself in them—; the genius of the heart who teaches the
foolish and over-hasty hand to hesitate and reach out more delicately; who
senses the hidden and forgotten treasure, the drop of goodness and sweet spirituality
under the thick cloudy ice and is a divining rod for every grain of gold that
has lain buried a long time in a dungeon crammed with mud and sand; the genius
of the heart, at whose touch everyone goes forward richer, not divinely gifted
and surprised, not as if delighted and oppressed with some foreign good, but
richer in his own self, newer to himself than previously, broken open, blown
upon and sounded out by a thawing wind, more uncertain perhaps, more tender,
more fragile, more broken, but full of hopes that as yet have no names, full of
new will and flowing, full of new irritations and opposing currents . . . But
what am I doing, my friends? Whom am I speaking to you about? Have I forgotten
myself so much that I have not once named him to you? Unless you have already
guessed for yourselves who this questionable spirit and god is who wants to be praised in
such a way. For just as things go with anyone who from the time he walked on
childish legs has always been on the move and in alien territory, so many
strange and not un-dangerous spirits have crossed my path, too, above all the
one I have just been speaking about, who has come again and again, namely, no
less a spirit than the god Dionysus,
that enormously ambiguous and tempter god, to whom in earlier times, as you
know, I offered up my first born, in all secrecy and reverence—as the last
person, so I thought, who had offered a sacrifice to
him: for I found no one who understood what I was doing then.7 Meanwhile
I learned a great deal, much too much, about the philosophy of this god, and,
as mentioned, from mouth to mouth—I, the last disciple and initiate of the god
Dionysus: and perhaps I can at last begin to give you, my friends, a little
taste of this philosophy, as much as I am permitted? In a hushed voice, as is
reasonable, for this concerns a number of things that are secret, new, strange,
odd, and mysterious. Even the fact that Dionysus is a philosopher and that the
gods also carry on philosophy seems to me a novelty that is not harmless and
that perhaps might excite mistrust precisely among philosophers—among you, my
friends it has less against it, although it could be that it comes too late and
not at the right moment: for it has been revealed to me that nowadays you are
not happy to believe in god and gods. Also perhaps the fact that
in my explanation I must proceed with more candour than is always pleasing to
the strict habits of your ears? Certainly
the god under discussion went further, very much further, in conversations like
this and was always several steps ahead of me . . . In fact, if it were
permitted, I would, following human practices, attach to him beautifully solemn
names of splendour and virtue; I would have to lavish a great deal of praise on
him for his courage as an explorer and discoverer, for his daring honesty,
truthfulness, and love of wisdom. But such a god has no idea how to begin with
all this venerable rubbish and pageantry. “Keep that,” he would say, “for
yourself and people like you and anyone else who needs it! I have no reason to
cover my nakedness!”—Do people sense that this type of divinity and philosopher
perhaps lacks shame? He said it this way once, “In some circumstances, I love
human beings”—and in saying that, he was alluding to Ariadne, who was present—”for me a human being is a
pleasant, brave, inventive animal that has no equal on earth; it
finds the right path even in every labyrinth.8 I
like him: I often reflect how I could bring him further forwards and make him
stronger, more evil, and more profound than he is.”—”Stronger, more evil, and more
profound?” I asked shocked. “Yes,” he said once more,
“stronger, more evil, and more profound, also more beautiful”—and with that the
tempter god smiled with his halcyon smile, as if he had just uttered an
enchanting compliment. We see here also that it is not just shame this divinity
lacks—; and in general there are good reasons to suppose that in some things
the gods collectively could learn from us human beings. We human beings
are—more human. . .
296
Alas, what are you then, my written and
painted thoughts! It’s not so long ago that you were still so colourful, young,
and malicious, full of stings and secret seasonings, that you made me sneeze
and laugh.—And now? You have already stripped off your novelty and some of you,
I fear, are ready to become truths: you already look so immortal, so
heartbreakingly honest, so boring! And was it ever different? What things we
transcribe in our writing and painting, we mandarins with a Chinese brush, we
immortalizers of things which let themselves be written—what are the only things we are capable of
painting? Alas, only what is about to fade and is beginning to lose its
fragrance! Alas, only storms which are worn out and withdrawing and old yellow
feelings! Alas, only birds which have exhausted themselves flying and lost
their way and now let themselves be caught by hand—by our hand!
We immortalize what can no longer live and fly, only tired and crumbling
things! And it is only your afternoon,
my written and painted thoughts, for which I alone have colours, many colours
perhaps, many colourful caresses and fifty yellows and browns and greens and
reds:—but no one will sense from me how you looked in your dawn, you sudden
sparks and miracles of my solitude, you, my old loved ones—my wicked thoughts!
NOTES
1Quintus Horatius Flaccus (65-8
BC) an important poet in classical Rome. [Back to Text]
2The 1900 German edition adds here: “(I
don’t dare mention greater names, but I have them in mind). [Back to Text]
3The German edition of 1900 adds after
the words “incurable hearts” the parenthetic comment: “(the cynicism of Hamlet,
the case of Galiani).” [Back to Text]
4Raphael (1483-1520): major Italian
painter of the Renaissance. [Back
to Text]
5Nietzsche uses Greek letters here: καιρός. [Back to
Text]
6Harpies: mythological winged monsters who
steal food. [Back
to Text]
7The “first work” Nietzsche is referring
to is his Birth of Tragedy,
published in 1872, in which he proposes the struggle between the Apollonian and
Dionysian. [Back to
Text]
8Ariadne: in Greek mythology the daughter of Minos, king of Crete. She helped Theseus
kill the Minotaur in the Labyrinth and escaped with him. When Theseus abandoned Ariadne,
Dionysus fell in love with her. [Back
to Text]
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